I Took Your Pulse
by PurpleWallflower
Summary: When Sherlock goes away, both John and Sherlock have to define their feelings for one another. Set in Season 2, before The Final Problem
1. Chapter 1

John Watson walked into 221B Baker Street, his arms tiered with groceries. Huffing to himself, he pulled open the fridge, nudging the pitcher of toes aside to make space for the new jug of milk. A rich moan emitted from Sherlock's room. Ice melted down John's sizzling back as he stood, hand frozen on the handle of the refrigerator door in shock.

_ It couldn't be. Sherlock wouldn't._

John quietly inched towards the door to Sherlock's room, silently hoping that his suspicions would not be true. Holding his breath John leaned his stocky frame towards the door, peering through the crack into the consulting detective's private chambers. Sherlock stood, one hand jammed in his pocket, smirking and dangling his cell phone in his hand. John's eyes flew open in shock.

_No! It's not possible. He must be… but Mycroft proclaimed her dead!_

John tried to clamp his jaw together as Sherlock twirled the phone around in his hand, rapidly texting with his long slender fingers. It was not Sherlock texting that was the surprise, but that he was texting a woman. Not only a woman, but a woman who was dangerous, coiled around the finger of a sinister—dare John say it—arch enemy of Sherlock's. She was a woman that John knew to be dead for almost a year now. John stood still like prey at Sherlock's door in wary and fretful anticipation, battle senses kicking in, and body alert as if waiting for an ambush. None came. Sherlock turned shoved the phone deep into his pockets, almost chuckling to himself. John frowned.

"You left the fridge open John and I need those toes to stay at that temperature; please tell me that it is within your capability to close a refrigerator door"

John stiffened, backing away from Sherlock's door with a creasing frown. Though he ignored John's sidelong glances, Sherlock said nothing of the text message all day. Later that evening, as John padded his way to his room to turn in for the night, he passed by the moonlit silhouette of Sherlock Holmes. Much like a time not too long ago, Sherlock stood with the violin at the surface of the window, the bow of the violin kissing the strings as he played a happier twist on Beethoven's Violin Concerto. The pleasant delicacy was haunting in a flat that was accustomed to hearing banshee shrieks from the instrument. Sherlock loved German composers but to hear Sherlock play so sweetly, was a rare occasion.

John lay swallowed in his bed, watching the ceiling lower towards his swimming vision as it breathed, and he listened to Sherlock play deep into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

The keys clacked under John's fingers, typing away at John's blog. In little fits of agitation his fingers keyed in the story of his last exploit with Sherlock to Scotland Yard. From the sound of it, Sherlock was in the back rooms doing…something. Crashes and thuds broke through the sound of typing like fits of strained coughing during a silent film. John puffed a sigh from his boroughs of his cheeks, resting his hands on the keyboard,

"Sherlock! What are you doing?"

Sherlock's long frame strolled out into the doorway of the sitting room, "I'm leaving for Austria tonight."

"Austria? I didn't know we had a new case! I haven't even booked flights ye—"

Sherlock waved John off, "That's all very well John, because you're not coming with me"

John's face stirred relief and stormy disappointment under furrowed brows, "You don't need help with the case? I could take a few days off to—"

"John, I seem to recall you voicing your discontent with being pulled into cases during your so called 'free times'"

"This is different Sherlock, you're going to another country; you might need someone to back you up,"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow almost mockingly, "Are you implying that I cannot handle one case on my own Watson? I assume that next you will be joining Mycroft in a duel to become my mother"

The figurative slap to John's face stung as he stood up, slightly shaking, "Sherlock! Why are you being so defensive? What are you up to?"

Sherlock gathered his coat and night blue scarf, strolling over to the mantel to pick up other lose items. "I thought it would be…polite…to give my favorite blogger some time to himself"

The nicety shot John dead, he licked his lip angrily as the situation shifted into perspective, "You're not going on a case are you?"

"I think you're getting better at making deductions John, your timing could be faster of course as it is mediocre at best, but you are definitely coming along well,"

John swatted off the foreign compliment, wetting his lips anxiously and thinking of the ominous ringtone he heard a month ago, "She's still alive isn't she?"

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, turning to face John Watson and pausing to give John an unwavering look. John ducked his head away in anger, closing his laptop with a soft click.

"I will be away four months. I left a folder of cases I have solved already for Lestrade, tell the man to text me any information he has. Do not let Mrs. Hudson near the kneecaps in the oven, despite any complaints she makes about the smell. Enjoy your date tomorrow John."

John parted his lips to ask how he knew about the date, but pressed them closed with a shake of his head. Sherlock spun on his heel and strode out of the flat, a bag in hand and coattails flaring out behind him.

"Goodbye Sherlock"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock loosened his scarf, whipping it off of his slender neck as he walked into the warm flat. Eyes focused on his phone, Sherlock strode into the sitting room,

"John, could you make some tea—" Sherlock faltered.

It would be bland of him to call it a Freudian slip, but no use in denying the truth. Sherlock looked up from the phone, observing the Austrian flat with a downturn of his lips akin to disgust. Irene Adler, perched on a chair in the opposite corner of the room, held a loftily bemused grin on her face. She drifted towards Sherlock, her opaque pink blouse barely stretching past her hip bones.

"Now now Sherlock, we can't have you talking to people who aren't here, can we? I believe you are here to pursue much different—interests"

Irene slowly closed the space between them, inching up to Sherlock as her fingers trailed their way up his torso. Sherlock stared back apathetically, though his eyes flickered for a moment with a hint of curiosity. Reestablishing his haughtily bored face, Sherlock looked into the cunning smile of the woman now running her hands over his chest.

"As for any situation, I have multiple reasons for everything I do; many of which may or may not be revealed to you"

"Oh you're feisty today… but that's nothing that I can't break you out of"

Sherlock batted away Adler's provocative banter with the blink of his eyelashes, "You know that I'm looking for Moriarty"

"And you know that I have information; but both of us know that's not the only reason that you're here. It seems, that Sherlock Holmes is curious"

"Keep in mind that I have beaten you once already, and I assure you—"

Irene shushed Sherlock, brushing her lips against the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock froze in uncharacteristic passivity, his eyes observing the woman pensively.

"What neither of us know, my dear Holmes, is how long it will take you to get the information from me"

As she spoke, she cheekily unbuttoned the top button of Sherlock's plum colored shirt, her fingers drifting over his collar bones. She stopped at the second button and turned her scarlet gaze upon Sherlock's face. Laughing to herself she slowly dropped her hands and sashayed away into a room. Closing the door, Irene Adler prepared her battle plans.

Sherlock frowned slightly, shaking his head to let the light filter back into his mind. He hastily buttoned his shirt, checking his empty text inbox with a discontent sigh. Sherlock slapped on two nicotine patches.


	4. Chapter 4

John walked back into the flat and slumped into his favorite chair, easing his shoulder blades into the soft back. Despite the familiarity of the flat, unease still oozed from the crannies of 221b, filling John Watson with a dry choking sense. John had grown a sudden aversion to the flat, and he avoided the place like the plague. He spent the last few nights at his girlfriend's house, though he barely had the heart to speak with her; he stayed in Mrs. Hudson's room, but it was difficult to try and shy away from her pitying looks; he even tried to spend the night sleeping in the surgery before Sarah kicked him out and sent him home. The house just wasn't the same to John, and every sigh, every sniffle of the air vent, every howl of wind outside the window now seemed foreign, intrusive, and menacing.

John tried to laugh at his own idiocy,

_Look at me, moping around the house as if someone died. This is actually great! I have the whole flat to myself; I can watch crap telly or use my laptop without interruption. I won't be dragged away at odd hours of the night or woken up by that bloody violin…._

John shifted uncomfortably. The flat had a new air about it. It was stuffy and almost suffocating without the presence of that cool drifting figure with the unmatched wit and snappish insults,

_This is good for both of us. We will still be on good terms when he comes back. This is really just a vacation for me. Anyway, I should be chuffed that Sherlock finally found himself a woman…_

John mulled over his discontent as he opened the fridge. He smiled, Sherlock would be angry when he came back to find all his experiments cleared away. No doubt he would take it out on the wall. John chuckled with glimmering anticipation of another one of Sherlock's fits.

_He can be such a child_

Leaning against the counter with his cuppa, John fingered the crystal ashtray Sherlock stole from Buckingham Palace.

_How did I let such an odd man take over my life? Ha! If my therapist could see me now, she wouldn't be able to write anything about my "trust issues". I guess I've met my match then—_

John was shaken by his thoughts. Abandoning his drink, John grabbed his coat. He needed to get himself sorted for once and for all, and though he hated to do it, he needed advice. John whipped out his phone, quickly shooting a text to Harry.

Are you home?

He knew what she would say, but he didn't want to commit himself to the word until it came from her mouth. He didn't know if he agreed with what all the others said, the nonsense about him being in love with Sherlock Holmes. John Watson was not gay… but how then would he describe his unrelenting need to be in Sherlock's presence, no matter how aggravating he was at times? Shifting his feet warily and impatiently, John waited for the text reply. When the "yes" lit up his screen, John made a dash for the door of 221b. He opened the door and stepped out in to the light, not sure if he was hoping to hear the word _soul mates_, fall from Harry's mouth or not.

Waiting for him right outside of 221b was a stunning young woman, her flaming red hair lighting up her black clad sensuous figure. John sighed, in no real mood to be driven off when he was in search for understanding.

"What if I didn't walk out of the flat?"

The girl smiled flirtatiously, "John, do you really have to ask? Get in the car please."

At the end of the smooth ride, the glossy black car pulled into a large abandoned train station. John was directed inside as the silent red head turned and swayed back towards the car. John hustled into the building, his feet thudding against the tiles a bit angry at the older Holmes brother.

"Alright then Mycroft, what do you want?"

The suave man glided out onto the open platform, standing a few feet away from the slightly smoldering John Watson.

"Tell me why you proclaimed her dead."

Mycroft cleared his throat with a quaint smile, trying not to display too much pity for John.

"For all legal purposes, the woman is dead; Sherlock's little stunt was anticipated and he's very lucky that I allowed it. She would not be there in Austria with him if I had not expected his little trick"

John stepped back furiously, "You let her live, and you let me believe she was dead?"

Mycroft smiled, "John, my brother has never felt any remorse for the death of any living thing. His feelings for Irene Adler are probably as much of a shock to himself as they were initially to the rest of us. I cannot help but to thank you for the slight change you brought upon him, but if there is a person who Sherlock himself wants to spare, I will gladly help him with that."

John's mouth popped open with disbelief and abomination, but quickly snapped short.

Mycroft's aristocratic grin pulled back into a pursed frown as he dejectedly inspected the umbrella in his hand, "Although I must apologize for my brother. I must say that I was hoping he'd choose you, it seems he still has a bit to learn."

Mycroft gave John a fleeting look of mercy before walking away down the train platform, umbrella swinging in his hands. The red headed woman walked up, leading a dumbstruck John back into the car as he chewed on Mycroft's words.

Just as John Watson had expected, Harry had said the words. John wasn't sure whether the words "soul mates" filled him with contempt or dread.


	5. Chapter 5

"There is another man of course, almost as sexy as you are Sherlock,"

"Oh, I think you know very well who I'm talking about. He drew up the right conclusion, when he made plans to burn your heart. The funny thing is, I don't think you understood what he meant. The virgin, that's not just a sexual reference Sherlock,"

"But," She said with a content sigh, happy to be holding knowledge over the head of the great Sherlock Holmes, "You were right too, in saying love makes us weak. It does, and by keeping you here Sherlock, **I took your pulse.** I don't think you yourself know how vital your heart is to your existence now,"

"How about that, sharp tongued genius who feels nothing, my biggest challenge, it turns out you have a bigger heart than a lot of us."

Sherlock stood, jaw set tight in disapproval, tiny lines of rage drawing from the side of his eyes. Flustered, Sherlock Holmes was flustered, and every cell in his body screamed in frustration.

"I cannot stand to hear you tell such lies without any hint as to from what evidence you are spinning these accusations. I am devoted to my work and I don't let emotions—" Sherlock spat the word, "cloud up my methods"

"Oh, don't you? Now there's a mystery worthy of Sherlock Holmes, funny because the rest of us have already figured this one out." Irene seemed to be enjoying taunting Sherlock with the same relish Moriarty exhibited in his well flung threats. However, her face started to droop in disappointment before it shot back up in a biting gaze.

Sherlock tried a last attempt to make deductions about the flighty temptress in front of him, but his frustration was only increased when his work was fruitless,

_It is unlikely that I am allowing my mind to be infected; in fact as of late I have been performing even better than usual, with the exception of this woman. I have gotten more cases than usual—although I assume that is helped somewhat by John's bloody blog. John—_

Sherlock's eyes twitched slightly and his face tensed as strings of ideas began to form in his mind. He itched to put on a third nicotine patch, despite it being a while since he needed three. Irene smiled almost smugly, hiding tiny pinprick of despair. She played a checkmate on herself as she spoke the words, "You're still here Sherlock; and you made the wrong decision to come here, how incredibly unsexy of you."

Sherlock face locked as he tried not to pace the room with wild flair at her words. "This is not about choosing sides, I was never playing your little games at all; I came here for information. Don't flatter yourself by believing I am here for you,"

Irene laughed heartily, tipping her head back, cleansing herself of other emotions, "Sherlock don't be a fool! I know what you were playing at. You came knowing fully well that I had no information, and yet you've stayed here for three months! Moriarty was never here and you know it. Go home Sherlock. You made the wrong choice."

Sherlock never understood the weight of the word, _wrong_, until that moment. Angrily he got up to leave, of course he knew all along that the woman would not divulge any information about Moriarty's whereabouts, but he was sure he made the right decision. He could not bring himself to admitting he lost. It was not him who lost; obviously he was still missing out on something of importance.

Irene smiled, "I will see you again Sherlock, hopefully by that time you'll play a much better game. It's no fun when you're so transparent,"

Sherlock fended off the woman's attempts to get under his skin.

"But for now, I think it's time you get back to London, both your heart, and Moriarty are waiting there for you; let's see which one burns first hmm?"

Sherlock's eyes flew open as the bombs erupted in his skull. With her small words as a lead, Sherlock ran out into the street, hailing a cab.

Irene Adler suppressed a small sob with a grin, closing the door to her small apartment with a wicked smile.

Sherlock Holmes mulled over his relationship with John, the concept of needed someone in his life unfamiliar and irksome…yet, it set him at peace.

John walked towards the flat, scowling a bit to himself about his foolish misconceptions. A taxi whizzed by him and he thought for a brief moment that—but of course it wasn't him, John shook his head and continued walking towards the flat, unconsciously speeding his pace.

Sherlock hopped out of the taxi and entered 221b Baker Street, "John!" His voice echoed with hints of new understanding. He tried to lace his acknowledged platonic need for the man with his usual icy tone.

From the kitchen a man chuckled, "Your puppy isn't here yet dear, but I do hope he comes soon, the tea is getting cold and I do hate waiting,"

Sherlock's muscles jerked with shock, he calmed himself, gliding into the kitchen and sitting down across the table from the smirking face.

"Hello Moriarty. Let's get this over with shall we?"

"Tut tut tut Sherlock, I intend to have some fun with this"


End file.
